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Denis J Foley Poems

Oh, Saintly Prelate, thy earthly course is run'Thy lasting crown of glory's won"Forever now you've gain'd sweet rest,In the realms above 'mid the pure and Blest,Aye! a noble life thou lead'st here below,In this sphere of sorrow, care and woe,Zealously, nobly, ever thou strove,To guide the wanderers to the haven of Love'Ever a faithful soldier of the risen Lord,Great was thy labour in his vineyard'Long will a faithful people thee revereFaithful guide to them so dear'Cherish'd in time wi1l be thY memorY,Warm Celtic hearts will remember thee,Deep was thy toil-aye! a labour of love,All, all, for the homage of the Ruler above'Meet and just the reward of the Almighty One'When the great call resounds and the life work is done'Of the gold and faithful servant who with ardour and zealToiled steadfastly on, thro' woe and thro' weal'Peace to thy shade, oh, sweet be thy rest,Now thy spirit co-mingles with Gods choicest and blest;Thou enjoy'st the reward of a stainless career'That awarded thee 'yond Death's portals drear;Resigned to the call of the Sweet Maker Divine'A well merited portion for e'er now is thine,Mid the Saints and the Martyrs who suffered and diedA just Master Last decreed thou may'st abideO great philosopher, friend and counsellor wisePlead for us 'fore the Great Throne in Paradise

How oft has the Banshee cried?How oft has her mournful caioneRung thro' the glades and echoed in the valesOf Erin's Isle of Green.For its told in the annals of Eire's land,She bewails the warrior's brave;Who fell in the fray ere the close of dayOr perished beyond the wave.

When some chieftain's spirit was 'bout to fleeTo the bright Celestial Bourne,The Banshee bemoans his passingAnd sadly for him doth mourn.Then her piercing wail resounds in the galeHer warning grim -- of deathYea! a scion true of the Celtic raceWill ne'er more his sword un-sheath.

O Fate! how long 'bove our suffering Isle,Shall hang the heavy pall,Of disappointment and unrest,Which holds this land in thrall.Shall this dear Isle once happy - freeNe'er more know bliss or peace,Shall Irish men as foes remainAnd rancour never cease?.

Ah! no a just Heaven will yet award,A generous portion meet,Of happiness, prosperity and peacefulness,And freedom - oh! so sweet.Then Eire's long night of suffering's o'erO fair! lovely Innisfail,Never more in warning of misery or woe,Will echo the lonely Banshee's wail

O hasten Lord, we humbly pleadThe day of Peace that we beseech;Thy wrath assuage and mercy show,And erring hearts to teach;That alone to thee the pow'r belongsTo shape the nation's destinyAnd chasten those who live in viceAnd cease to think with awe of Thee

True to Ireland, heroic, daring.He's the patriot's pure soul'd zeal;Oh! forever shall his name shine,Mongst the brave of Innisfail.Ah! a martyr for his sireland,Suffered he for Erin's sake;All the torfures of the tyrantShould not his dauntless courage break,Heaven grant him peace--Eternal Rest-Everlasting Bliss 'mid his chosen Blest... ...

A bright new year, is once more here-from out Time's wombThe o1d year's past, Aye! one it wast of sorrow-gloom.Thickly fell the human rain, upon the gory sodden plainever without ceasing.Mortals writhing in their gorg where cannons madly belch and roar,God' s wrath unappeasing.Many bewailing lov'd ones fond, pass'd to the great beyond,whence there's ao returning.Gone from out this vale of tears, now nougt kaowing of earthly cares,free from grief or mourning.There amid the fearful strife, the Reaper Death was ever rife-Aye! there men died.In the stifling smoke and shell, thro' that fierce and earthly hell,which pen cannot describe"O, God of Nations humbly we pray, send to men the joyful rayof glorious peace.Bring this carnage to an end, quell the vile and wrathful fiend of war-soon grant it cease.Permit O Lord that this thrice welcome span, within the life of weary manmay bring sweet joy.A measure blest of Heavenly Bliss may waft to us from Paradise-a peace without allay.